


Ill Prepared

by overthetiber



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Post-Sburb, Pre-Threesome, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthetiber/pseuds/overthetiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While staying at Rose's for the week, Kanaya and Eridan contract a human disease that is *not* friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ill Prepared

**Author's Note:**

> In multiple short chapters, because (a) it motivates me and (b) I suck.

While Rose Lalonde’s guardian left her many useful things—among them this cavernous house, a not inconsiderable collection of fine liquors, and an unparalleled understanding of sarcasm—she neglected to enlighten her charge as to how to treat the flu. Perhaps it has something to do with Rose’s ectobiological origins, but her immune system is such that she’s never experienced anything more debilitating than the common cold. (Which, considering John’s deadly peanut allergy, is rather strange.)

The same cannot be said for her two guests, who are currently sharing (a) a human and/or troll disease that is definitely not friendship, (b) the master bed, (c) all the clean bedding in the house minus Rose’s own, (d) an ornamental basin that acts as a vomit receptacle, and (e) 413% of the patience Rose does not have.

The basin caused some issues. Eridan scoffed, though his cheeks were tinged purplish; Kanaya turned dark jade green. But apparently they felt too poorly to resist in any concrete fashion, and the basin has been used as intended. Well, as Rose intended. It’s a repulsive objet d’art, all dramatically posing wizards under an exquisite golden lacquer, and she derives minute but appreciable pleasure from cleansing it of the contents of her friends’ stomachs. (Or whatever stomach-analogous organ trolls have.)

“ _Cod_ , this is unfair,” whines Eridan. He wiggles deeper under his pile of blankets, so only his forehead and clenched-shut eyes are visible.

“I am in the exact same position as you, you know,” Kanaya husks, and curls in on herself, coughing violently into her knees.

Rose speaks with deliberate softness. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“Just something to read, please,” murmurs Kanaya. Eridan merely groans.

Rose slips out and descends to the living room area. The bookshelves yield little in the way of Kanaya-appropriate reading material, though she eventually discovers a back issue of _Vengeful Vampire Vixens_. The sound of retching from upstairs, punctuated with salty oaths, persuades her to head to the kitchen, where she procures and dampens some paper towels.

When she returns, Eridan has just finished throwing up. He attempts to wipe his mouth with one towel, but his claws shred it to bits. Wincing, Rose helps him press the rest to his face. His skin is moist and vaguely scaly, but much warmer than she remembers troll skin feeling. Probably a fever, she decides.

With an anguished sigh, he flops back onto his pillows. “Wwater,” he demands.

“You won’t be able to keep it down. Wait half an hour.”

Eridan’s lower lip quivers. Although his eyes are certainly dry, he manages to summon a tearful glint. “Please, Rose?”

“It would bring me inappropriate—nay, utterly perverted—pleasure to refuse you outright, so I will repeat: Half an hour.”

“ _I_ have not vomited for twenty minutes,” Kanaya observes.

“I’ll bring you something to drink in ten minutes,” Rose promises, and hands her the magazine.

“Tea?”

“Ask and ye shall receive.” Rose tilts the basin questioningly towards Eridan, who shakes his head. So she picks it up and goes to wash it out.

-

Eridan manages not to throw up while she’s gone, so she heads out to brew the tea. WebMD discourages the consumption of caffeinated beverages by influenza patients; the only caffeine-free tea in the house is a red African blend that Eridan insists on calling “rowboats.”

Kanaya sips her rowboats with brittle poise, brow creased in focus or pain. She is halfway through the magazine already. Rose considers letting her read her journals, though she’s not sure if any of them don’t mention Kanaya now. Probably best not to risk it.

Eridan seems to have accepted their (half-pretended, really) indifference to his complaints. He alternates glancing at his own hands, the tea, and the basin. The last item has held his attention for quite some time when he speaks again. “Havve to say, this is not the kind a bucket fillin I thought wwe’d be doin here.”

Kanaya makes a sound partway between shriek and squeal, and narrowly avoids dumping tea all over her chest.

“Oh?” Rose says, and pretends she cannot hear her heart pounding. Stupid lousy goddamn pervert seatroll.

“I packed the ceremonial bowwls and everythin.” He stares mournfully at his rings.

Rose cocks an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t pretend you aren’t at _least_ as flushed for Kan as—hrrrrrrk!” Kanaya spills the remainder of her rowboats in his lap.

“ _Trolls_ ,” Rose hisses, and stomps off to fetch some towels.


End file.
